The Day When Dreaming Ends
by helio5igma
Summary: The evils of multiple realms decide to use a dream vortex to try and rule all the worlds that ever existed. The heroes and anti-heroes of those realms convene to intervene. Sherlock/Doctor Who/Sandman/Avengers/others crossover - EVERYTHING IS FAIR GAME.
1. Chapter 1: Mycroft

**A/N****:** This is the result of boredom and procrastination. A friend and I started an RP that we plan to throw... pretty much everything into, so be warned. It may start serious, but it may get cracky, may get dramatic - either way, it'll be fun. Props to anyone who can figure out which characters I wrote, hehe. :)

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Mycroft Holmes has not been sleeping well.

He lets no one know.

"That's only to be expected," they'd say. But Moriarty— and Sherlock, dear willful, infuriating, unwitting Sherlock— have planted the seed of doubt in their minds. "It's a terrible thing, what happened with his brother. Tragic. Poor man."

But there are whispers behind closed doors. The idea has been planted, and there is no cure. If the younger brother were a fraud, is it not possible that the elder brother is, too?

And so he is as he has always been.

Indispensable.

He has no choice, none of the room for error Sherlock had. When Sherlock had failed, those close to him had been devastated. A small handful of people. Tragic, yes.

If Mycroft fails, England itself will fall.

He cannot allow someone less competent to take his place, and so he needs to be— and to seem— more competent than ever. At the very least, perhaps they will come to realize the truth: if a fraud gets the results you want, he may as well be the real thing.

Bad dreams are not a weakness he can afford; he cannot afford any weakness at all.

And so it is that, at least in that, Mycroft Holmes is, indeed, a fraud. To all appearances, unflappable, stoic, the consummate professional and patriot. His brother's fall has not perturbed him at all— if anything, it has pushed him, made him sharper.

He could almost believe it himself, if he didn't remember the dreams so vividly, if he didn't find himself so ill-rested when he woke. But he does.

He never lets anyone know what it is that gets him through the day, because, so far as the world is concerned, he needs nothing to help him through the day.

But it is in those moments when he sees out of the corner of his eye, spray paint on a brick wall, a single shirt in a crowd, a picture on the internet.

Five words.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

God bless the men and women of England. For a moment, just a moment, he no longer feels alone in carrying the weight of the nation on his shoulders.

There comes a morning, however, months later, when he finds that perhaps it would be better if he were alone.

A report crosses his desk, one of dozens. A theory. Numbers. Statistics. Data. Not that it matters so very greatly. They all have numbers. Statistics. Data. It's easy enough to twist them, to make them mean whatever you want. Mycroft should know, he does it better than any of those who write the reports that cross his desk.

Except this one is about an increasingly troubling trend in sleep- and dream-related studies. Hundreds. Thousands. Hundred thousands. Patients with symptoms… symptoms like his.

It's impossible, of course. There can't be an epidemic of bad dreams. It can't be weaponized (if it could, Mycroft would have done it by now.)

Which begs the question.

_What the devil is going on?_


	2. Chapter 2: The Doctor

There is fire and death on Gallifrey, screams and moans of pain, pleading that he cannot hear but for a distant whisper. It is a familiar dream, and yet, this time, so much more devastating, so much more painful. He feels them, feels their dual-hearts stopping, sees the destruction but cannot hear it, and somehow it is all the worse for it. He runs to them, embraces them, tries to direct them to safety - but he cannot hear their words, nor they his. He is locked away, blocked by an intangible mist that holds his saving voice in, keeps his brilliance away as so many years ago, physical distance did.

The Doctor wakes. Or so he thinks.

But the TARDIS is cold and alien. Its lights do not comfort him, its noises are unintelligible to his ears. He wanders it like a lost sheep, feeling more alone than he thought possible, until around him the walls begin to tear, to crumble, and he sees -

Everything. Worlds, planets, stars, universes - colliding in upon themselves until there is nothing left, nothing but him and the void.

The Doctor's eyes are red and tired, and he rubs him when the nightmare has released his mind. There is something wrong. Something horribly, terribly wrong. And as always, he must fix it.

"Hold together with me, old girl," he coos, patting an instrument panel comfortingly - more for himself, he realizes, than for her. "This is going to be a big one."

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**A/N:** Let us know what you think, guys, and forgive the rusty characterizations, if they are rusty - it's been a while since either of us has played/written some of these guys.


	3. Chapter 3: Daniel

"Matthew?"

"Yes?"

Dream— Daniel— Dream looks at the raven with those wide, starry eyes. He looks old, ancient beyond measure. He looks young, naive, uncertain. Most of all, he looks lost.

He reaches up to touch the emerald that rests upon his chest, a familiar gesture to his friend. He always seems to draw reassurance from it. Today— tonight— (what meaning have those words in the Dreaming?) now, though, this time, it doesn't seem to help.

The Lord of the Dreaming turns his gaze out of the window once more. He had hoped he'd know what to say. How to ask what he wanted to ask. He doesn't. His expression might have looked saturnine… if it didn't look more like a troubled child pouting.

"Kid?"

"I apologize Matthew. I was thinking."

The raven half wants to alight on his shoulder— something he never would have even considered with this Dream's predecessor— to try to comfort him… but though Dream— this Dream— isn't his Boss… he is still Dream of the Endless.

"Well, Kid, you've got the brooding down pat."

Though his smile is wan, a smile was a smile. Matthew counts it as a win.

"Thank you… I think.

I was thinking… This is… familiar."

"Isn't it always?"

"Yes…" The pale figure hesitates.

"But?"

"But something is… strange. In the Dreaming. Strange, in a familiar way."

'He makes about as much sense as Boss did.' Matthew keeps that thought to himself, though, letting Dream continue.

"It was before your time, I think. Else I would ask your advice."

'Kid's not all bad,' Matthew admits to himself, trying not to preen a little.

"And the Corinthian… he should remember it, though as I do. He was the Corinthian of Then. The Corinthian of Now, though, will have the same difficulty that I do. I do not wish to call my siblings away from their duties…"

"Lucien," Matthew pipes up.

"Ah. Yes. Lucien. Thank you, Matthew." Still, Dream pauses. Matthew wonders what it is those eyes see that trouble him so deeply. Whatever it is, he is glad to know that he won't have to go and tell the Corinthian that Dream wants to see him. He is loyal to Dream, Matthew knows… but he is a creepy fucker.

Finally, Dream turns away from the window, unwilling to delay any longer as he drifts towards the chamber door. He'll be going to the library. But when Matthew makes to follow, Dream looks back.

"Matthew. He may not be able to advise me as well as Lucien," Oh. Oh no. "but I shall be requiring—" Kid, don't you say it, don't you say it. "you to summon the Corinthian, as well." Dammit.

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**A/N:** I'm posting in individual characters for the time being, but that structure is subject to so much change... once the interaction begins it'll transition into regular chapters, I think.


	4. Chapter 4: Sherlock

Sherlock does not dream - not normally. Such indolent and uncontrolled thinking is a waste of time, when a mind like his can be occupied studying the libraries and organizational wonders of his mind palace. He learned to control his dreams long ago, to use them productively, to rid himself of the moments when his mind was not his to control - lucid dreaming, they called it, but for him was regarded as a simple extension of his consciousness, a place for him to continue his deliberations and deductions in peace.

Tonight, however. Tonight is not a night for lucid thought.

Tonight Sherlock's mind palace is full of unopened doors. It intrigues him, the mystery - he has always known his mind palace, every room, every crevice. He cannot help his curiosity - what are they? Where do they lead? He certainly didn't put them there, so who did? He must know. He has no mysteries; he has solved all of his personal dilemmas ages ago. He begins to open them, because he has to, because he is Sherlock Holmes and nothing, nothing is a mystery to him.

Behind them he finds things he confusion. Things he dislikes, things he cares nothing for, things that challenge even his mind. Many do not, he observes, deserve a place in his palace on their own, but their collective presence and the lack of reason behind them is a case he cannot ignore. He delves deeper, and soon there are whole hallways, labyrinthine wings to the palace that were never there before, filled with images and memories and wonders from beyond his time.

Sherlock knows it is beyond the scope of his current knowledge, so he does the only thing he can do - he wakes up, and begins the hunt for clues.


End file.
